By Metalhead64 – Own work, Public Domain
My sister works in an Emergency Room at a hospital. The other morning she sent a group text to me, my brother in law (her husband), and my mom.
I present to you the conversation that took place:
My sister: ER diagnosis of the day…”battery in vagina”
My mom: Wtf is that?
My brother in law: It’s where babies come from.
My sister: Ok mom, let me explain. She was probably using a toy and the battery fell out into her vagina and she actually came to the ER to have it removed instead of asking her boyfriend/girlfriend/husband/mother/ANYONE to remove it to save the embarrassment of coming to ER.
My brother in law: Maybe she wasn’t a real person and that’s just where the battery goes. Did she power down after they removed it?
Me: I cannot even handle any part of this.
My brother in law: Were they D batteries?
Me: Coming from someone who’s lost an object in her vagina, let me testify to the frustration that can arise from losing something in there. Even after you’ve gone spelunking for it.
My sister: You realize mom has dropped out of this conversation.
Me: I affectionately refer to that time in my life as The Great Cock Ring Incident of 1999.
My sister: HOW COULD ANYONE FORGET THAT?
My brother in law: The Great Cock Ring Incident is permanently burned into my mind … As much as I try to forget it I can’t … I’ve been scarred for life … Lol
Me: HOW DO YOU THINK MY VAGINA AND I FELT?
My sister: I HOPE HAPPY GIVEN THE CIRCUMSTANCES IN WHICH IT WAS LOST!!
My mom: OMG this is my life. Where did I go wrong? I thought I did a good job raising my kids.
My sister: What??? I’m just telling you about a patient with a serious issue!!
My brother in law: At least you don’t have to take responsibility for my upbringing.
The thing is, the struggle is real. I can tell you, from first hand experience, that it is horrifying to lose something in a vagina.
My husband’s penis is pierced. One of the holes through which the piercing went became a bit stretched and the ring slid out.
At a most inopportune time.
You don’t want to hear your partner utter the words, “Uh, honey. Don’t freak out,” right after sex.
We ripped that bed apart.
In the end, we had to accept there was only one place left for it to be. Flat on my back, naked and sticky, trying not to panic-breathe through my nose while he poked and slid his fingers into the far reaches of my lady cavern is when I knew I had to marry him.
I couldn’t fathom living through that with anyone else.
PS, we didn’t find it that night. Two days later, still nothing. After a week, I broke down and told my mom and sister.
Yes, that was an awkward conversation. My sister thoroughly enjoyed it. My mom, not as much.
My mom urged me to go to the doctor. I felt I’d rather eat the ass out of a dead horse than explain the situation to a medical professional. Probably because some part of me sensed I’d most likely end up the subject of an uproarious conversation between said doctor and her wise-ass brother in law.
Two weeks after it went missing, after we’d had some rough sex, my husband shouted, “Guess what I just found?!”
Turns out those are some words you want to hear your partner utter after sex. Especially when the ring from his piercing has been vacationing somewhere along your scenic vaginal canal.
There it was, stuck to my inner thigh. Saving me from the horror of watching my gyno strap on a miner’s helmet and pull out a metal detector. For years after, we joked that the ring was truly our firstborn.
So, to the lady in my sister’s ER with the battery lost in her unmentionables, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I laughed. I hope you are well. If it’s any consolation, I know your particular brand of mortification.
I honor your bravery in seeking out medical help. All laughs aside, I’m lucky my lady bits didn’t end up injured.
My vagina salutes your vagina in solidarity and in good health.
As does my husband’s ring. From it’s permanent home in our jewelry box. (Not my box. An actual wooden jewelry box. Where it has resided since its eviction from my box.)